


In Their Own Words

by Ultirex



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Commission fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-25
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2019-03-09 03:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13472745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ultirex/pseuds/Ultirex
Summary: Ten gives Rung a small reminder that everyone deserves to be remembered.





	In Their Own Words

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Popodoki](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Popodoki/gifts).



> Commission for popodoki on Tumblr, who wanted Rung getting some love and appreciation. Hope you enjoy, and thank you for giving me the opportunity to write these two! :)
> 
> Set early in _Lost Light_ (around issue 2, I'd say). Has minor spoilers for TDotL.

Everything that had happened since their arrival on the Necroworld had been overwhelming, to say the least, and Rung found himself longing for a moment of peace to gather his thoughts and recover from the bombshell that Ratchet had dropped on him not long ago.

He wasn’t expecting to find a kindred spirit enjoying the solitude provided by one of the many back rooms in the Necrobot’s fortress. Upon seeing the large, looming figure of Ten facing a wall in an otherwise vacant room, Rung almost passed him by without a word. 

Almost. His duty of care extended beyond simply his patients, and it wouldn’t allow him to simply ignore such a lonely sight. 

“Getting away from the noise too?” Rung asked as he tentatively stepped into the room. His hands remained clasped behind his back as he approached Ten; an attempt to not appear imposing, he told himself, but maybe it did little more than betray the timidity he felt in the company of someone who was simply an acquaintance to him. “I understand the feeling. I don’t necessarily mind when things get lively. They almost always are on our ship, after all. But it’s not the same when you’re not in the company of friends.”

He paused several feet behind Ten, who until that point had not turned to acknowledge him. It was there that Rung was able to catch a glimpse of what had kept Ten, normally an amicable enough fellow, occupied enough to appear standoffish. 

Ten was standing before what Rung would have deemed an artistic marvel. It was a mural, though perhaps it would have been more accurate to call it an epitaph of sorts. It depicted the Necrobot - no, Censere, and it would only be appropriate to refer to him by name in the face of such a tribute - at rest in a bed of the flowers; the same ones that gave his planet a sense of beauty that was steeped in tragedy. Censere’s optics were closed, his hands resting against his chest, the curvature of his mouth pensive. He looked as if he could have simply been recharging, but Rung knew he was sleeping a slumber far more eternal. 

For someone who supposedly had the most rudimentary grasp on language, Ten was clearly adept at expressing himself through other mediums. Rung let out a gasp of awe at the sight and said, “It’s beautiful, Ten.”

“Ten,” Ten said, lowering the paintbrush that was delicately held between fingers that seemed far too big for such a craft. 

“You did this all yourself?” 

“Ten.” Ten fiddled with the paintbrush in his hands, his gaze cast downwards as if he were embarrassed by the admiration evident in Rung’s tone. 

Rung took a step forward, a hand instinctively reaching out to gain a more intimate understanding of the artwork before him, but he stopped. “Sorry. I wouldn’t want to ruin your hard work. But, may I get a closer look?”

Ten took a step aside, giving Rung ample room to better observe his creation. 

“It was very thoughtful of you to do this,” Rung said as he leaned in to examine the finer details. Censere’s cloak was perhaps the most breathtaking aspect of it, as it appeared that Ten had gone so far as to paint constellations into the celestial landscape of it. “For someone who went to such lengths to ensure that no death went undocumented, his own passing went nearly unmourned.” Rung adjusted his glasses. His expression had turned somber, despite the wonder he still felt at what he was beholding. “It’s incredibly sad to be simply forgotten, isn’t it?”

“Ten,” Ten murmured. His fingers had become coated in splotches of blue paint in the midst of his fidgeting. 

“I’m talking an awful lot, aren’t I?” Rung gave Ten a wry smile. “Sorry. Most of the time I’m the one listening. Rarely do I find myself in the position to ramble like this. You must understand the feeling.”

Ten nodded. The brush fumbled through his fingers and clattered against the floor.

“You do a lot of observing, don’t you? It’s how you notice all these small things about everyone. It makes for great artistry, I’m sure.” Rung stooped down and picked up the brush before extending it in offering. “And it makes you a valuable friend. You see things about people that others may not pay any mind to.”

“Ten.” 

Ten accepted the paintbrush from Rung and considered it in the palm of his hand. He looked between Rung and the brush, his expression unreadable as he did so. Rung weathered the moment in silence, allowing Ten to work out whatever thought had presented itself. 

“Ten, ten,” Ten said with a newfound sense of urgency. He bent over and picked up the palette that he had been using previously, wiped the excess blue paint off of his brush, and dipped it in a golden color that Rung recognized as having accented the stars on Censere’s cloak. Then, crouching down in front of Rung, he began to paint something on the ground.

Rung’s smile was sheepish as he attempted to add some levity to the silence. “Oh, I’ve never been someone’s muse before.” 

Ten didn’t respond. He appeared to be intensely focused on his work, and Rung couldn’t help but notice that what had been a steady hand suddenly seemed to tremble with uncertainty as it guided the brush in a shaky line. Rung refrained from commenting, however, wondering if it was some sort of performance anxiety that had caused Ten’s artistic confidence to falter.

After a moment of labored painting, Rung was able to discern what Ten had struggled to communicate. It wasn’t anywhere near the caliber of the mural that overlooked this exchange; rather, it was almost laughably simple in comparison.

“R?” He removed his glasses, observed the letter through squinted optics, before putting them back on and accepting that it was, in fact, nothing more. “Are you writing something?”

“Ten,” was all that Ten said before he put his brush back to the floor and resumed his work.

They didn’t exchange any further words for the remainder of the process. Rung twiddled his thumbs as he waited, wondering if perhaps he should occupy himself with something, anything else to take the pressure off of Ten and mitigate his own discomfort in the deafening silence.

Rung’s attention was drawn back to the ground when he felt a gentle tug on his hand. Ten said nothing, instead simply standing aside to allow Rung to admire his work. 

“‘Rung,’” Rung said, as he put together the sloppily drawn letters. They didn’t appear to have been crafted by the same hand that excelled at artistic pursuits. Had Rung known better, he would have attributed them to a protoform that was only just beginning to grapple with language. 

And perhaps such an assessment wouldn’t be too far off the mark, Rung realized as he met Ten’s eager gaze that was awaiting some sort of approval, or at the very least recognition of his endeavor. 

“My name,” Rung said. When Ten gave an ecstatic nod, Rung couldn’t suppress a grin. “Yes, that’s my name. I’m - well, I’m flattered, Ten. To be perfectly honest with you, sometimes it feels like my name isn’t all that memorable. Fitting for someone who isn’t all that remarkable, I suppose.” 

It was a little sad, he knew, how such a small gesture made some fluid begin to well in the corner of his optic, and he removed his glasses once more to stubbornly rub at it as he said, “Thank you, Ten. I can see that you put a lot of work into this, and I appreciate it. I really do.”

“Ten,” Ten said, and without any reservation he pulled Rung into a tight embrace. 

Rung was practically engulfed by Ten’s much larger frame, and he chuckled as he rested his helm against Ten’s broad chest. “I hear you, Ten. You may not have a voice in the same way many of us do, but I hear what you have to say.”


End file.
